She beamed at him as though she’d been awaiting this very question. “Circles are the perfect shape. Every angle is the correct angle. And biscuits of this size—scarcely larger than a guinea—need not be cut or trimmed. They are already the ideal size to pop into one’s mouth. Try it!”
He did not. “And the colorful dollops at the center of each?”
“Spring fruits. Only the very best,” she added with a straight face. “Hand-selected by the sixth duke of—”
“There are five shades of pink or red, three shades of purple... One cannot even tell which fruit is which.”
“I should hope not,” she said cheerfully. “The mystery is part of the magic. Your guests do not show their true identities. Why then should their biscuits?”
“Because they’rebiscuits,” he growled.
It was a clever idea. He could already see the appeal of each guest filling a small plate with half a dozen shortbread guineas and exclaiming in delight to discover this one was that flavor, and so on.
“You’repretendingto hate the idea,” she scolded him.
He glowered at her.
“Before you say it’s not pretentious enough for your set because they’ll only eat butteredtellinessimmered by a Parisian chef—”
“Aix-en-Provence,” Julian murmured.
“—allow me to counter by pointing out that an exalted Aix-en-Provence-ian chef should be capable of duplicating this recipe, and that the very conceit of biscuits with secret identities is by definition pretentious. Pretentious and delicious. Try one,” she coaxed. “Unmask its flavor.”
He lifted one that looked like blackberry and placed in his mouth.
It was not blackberry. It was elderberry. The surprise was indeed as satisfying as Miss Thorne had promised.
The biscuit itself was of the ideal diameter to pop into one’s mouth with ease and grace. The creamy dollop of tartness on top was the perfect balance to the sweet, crumbly shortbread. It was a superlative biscuit.
“How does it taste?” Miss Thorne asked eagerly.
“Insufficiently pretentious,” he informed her. “Un-French. I think these were made with asymmetrical elderberries.”
She clapped her hands. “You love it! I knew you would! Your guests would too, if you let them.”
This did not require a reply. She already knew he would reject all changes. He helped himself to what looked like a gooseberry biscuit.
It was strawberry-rhubarb.
Miss Thorne leaned forward. “Perhaps no one has ever told you, so allow me to be the first. Relinquishing a minute fraction of control does not diminish your power nor compromise your self. It is still your house and it remains your masquerade, regardless of the menu one finds at the refreshment table.”
“And it is my reputation at risk,” he added.
She rolled her eyes. “Ah, yes, your reputation for debauchery and complete disregard of polite society’s rules. Are your guests really going to be offended if individual biscuit flavors are unlabeled and the shortbread does not come from France?”
“Deeply offended,” he told her. “Mortallyoffended. I shall be at the top of all of the scandal columns by morning.”
“You... what?” Miss Thorne’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. “Tomorrowmorning?”
“You did not expect me to eat four dozen bite-sized biscuits by myself, did you?” He was not giving in just to please her. He was proving her wrong. He was still in control.
“I...” She blinked at him.
“We’ll put them on the tray nearest the dance floor. That is the most frequented of all the dessert tables. There aren’t enough to last for more than a quarter hour, but that should be enough time to gauge the general reaction. If I hear so much as a whisper of complaint against these shortbread guineas—”
“You won’t,” she promised. “Anyone who dislikes ‘masquerade biscuits’ shall be deposited in the Thames before they can ruin the experience for other guests.”
“You’re ruthless,” he said. “I like it.”
